


The Cliff and The Creek

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Rare Pairing, Tal-Vashoth Iron Bull, and from Solas, getting some help from his dear friends, i guess, look between the lines, trying to cope with it, who's a little bit more than a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull is a tal-vashoth now, his ordered world is falling into pieces, and everyone from the Inquisitor's party tries to support him. But the only one who really knows how to help Bull is Solas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cliff and The Creek

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Скала и ручей](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186651) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



The Inquisitor stands him a drink, chuckling at how dashingly the tavern’s platband has been torn down by his, the Herald's, extra energy, and says with conviction there’s nothing bad about being a tal-vashoth, it’s possible to get used to it. Get used? Sure. But, as it’s seen, the Inquisitor himself still clings with his horns on to everything, like he’s a young deer in the spring time. Get used? No sweat. But the Inquisitor is not a tal-vashoth and has nothing to compare this state to, for he’s almost a human. He’s grown up among humans, has learnt to think like they do, to reason, to sympathize. His heart is soft, his intentions are good and his eyes are the ones of a faithful dog − such a lovely set. For a human. For a farmer. For a horsebreaker of those animals which can bear his weight. The Inquisition forces him to do things he would never do before. And if he was a part of the Qun, it would crush him dead. He is weak. The Iron Bull doesn’t want to see himself in the Inquisitor. The Iron Bull is stronger. 

Sera sits down on the edge of the table, swinging her legs and wagging her tongue, the folly inside her head is enough to sink an entire dreadnought, though she’s a nice and well up girl. She flies around like a midge, pays double court to the short-spoken maids, and then, woozy, cheeky, tipsy, she climbs on the Bull’s scruff to shoot someone in the ear for a bet. But from time to time she looks into his face, hoping to sight, probably, a mirth? relief? humility? The Iron Bull doesn’t know. The Bull has lost much and found even more, and that’s why he doesn’t know.

Dorian, sweet Dorian in his shining apparels, stops curling his lips in disdain for those, who doesn’t perfume their cuffs with violaceous oil, and comes to the tavern. He tattles acidly, doesn’t pick on words, and he put away his mordacity, leaving the umbrages outside − such a clever boy, but this mawkish attention makes the Bull’s blood clot. The Iron Bull can cope without sparkling glances, shimmering spells and fizzy words. Without gracious compassion. 

Blackwall tries to load him with drudgery at the stables. Though they were just exchanging nods thus far, the Warden feels some kind of responsibility for him. “In death, sacrifice,” he says, but the Bull doesn’t want to be a sacrifice nor turn others into the sacrifices as well.

Cassandra rewards his back with a heavy, friendly, heartfull pat, because they are both in the same boat, it’s leaky and battered by storms, but there’s much more to come. She wants to show him a couple of fighting tricks, not the fair ones, of course, and allows him to make her blush, as if she’s a tender vestal, and giggles awkwardly, and eases herself up, seeing the captain of the Chargers still holding on. But it’s not easy at all for the Iron Bull to let everything just go.

Cole opens his mouth, but the Iron Bull orders him to shut the heck up. The Bull doesn’t like to be harsh, the rudeness is not part of his manners, especially towards the lad, who has stuck on the verge of two worlds, without knowing which side is more appropriate to choose. More correct. More reliable. But Cole notices too much, he reaches into such corners, where even the spiders would hesitate to weave their webs. Cole keeps whispering soundlessly, just for himself, and the Iron Bull rushes away, out of the harm’s way, for he doesn’t want to forget anything at all. No matter how bitter the truth is, he will never allow any spurious illusions to water it down.

Vivienne’s not breathing a word. The Madame First Enchanter has already spoken out to the Inquisitor, the whole fortress was quacking, but the Herald of Andraste just gave up on her and said that he’d make it through without any advices. What an imprudent act, darling. The consequences of which are evident, my dear. Sometimes even the calmness around her bleeds out poison. The Bull is poisoned.

Varric shows up with an inkwell. He wasn’t there, on the salted coast, where the restless waves flounce up to horizon, hiding darkness beneath, the burnt skeleton of the ship, and bodies. Varric wants to know every detail, he stays considerate and aims for the point as a cat, stealing up to its prey, however he feels where it’s better to step back, and after all he just offers the Bull to distract his thoughts with the game of Wicked Grace. They linger till the night. The Iron Bull wins. And loses.

Solas doesn’t choke on local booze as a sign of solidarity. He doesn’t stroke the Bull’s shoulder consolatory with his chilly narrow palm. He doesn’t twaddle, or appeal to reason, or look searchingly at the Bull’s face. No, Solas goes right on to the offensive. “Tal-vashoth,” he calls him, and it feels like every bit of Skyhold’s cold pierces through the Iron Bull’s body. Solas exults, of course: behold the victory over the odious, slavish, unacceptable, and wild Qun. “But you are no beast,” he dishes up this fact as it’s the Bull’s personal achievement, and he says with a deep respect,  though still pricks him with the lenient sight. “Pawn to E4,” he induces him with slight mockery, and it cleans Bull’s mind. Solas is like the mountain creek, which has found a fissure in the cliff, washed all the grits and splinters away from its path, and then flared in the rays of dawn.

“And you have me.” And the Iron Bull knows, _this one_ is true.


End file.
